


The Orc's Tongue

by Lobelia321



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-27
Updated: 2013-04-27
Packaged: 2017-12-09 18:09:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/776432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lobelia321/pseuds/Lobelia321
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pippin is licked by his Orc-captor.  Various bodily fluids are secreted and ingested.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Orc's Tongue

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to Belinda and Tyellas for orcastic inspiration. This is my very first FPS-fic (I usually write RPS) and I thank the OrcSlash list for freeing my inner orc. *g* And thank you to the amazing Belinda for thoughtful and careful beta.

Title: The Orc's Tongue

Author: Lobelia; lobelia40@yahoo.com

Author's website: http://blithesea.net/lobelia/

Archive Rights: [So Wrong](http://elektra.slashcity.tv/orcslash/); [Least Expected](http://www.femgeeks.net/tolkien/); my niche. Anyone else, please ask me first.

Pairing: Pippin / Orc. Implied Pippin / Merry.

Spoilers: TTT (book and movie).

Warnings: Kinky, squicky. Has rape, blood, murder, infanticide, coprophagy, urophagy, scatology, anolingus, necrophilia, some het, interspecies, angst and rude language. I think that about covers it. No attempt has been made to imitate Tolkien's prose style. I've also Vcheerfully ignored some of the details of the Orcs' march as described in the book.

Rating: NC-17.

Disclaimer: The named characters in this story belong to J.R.R. Tolkien, as do Orcs, Middle Earth and the event of the hobbits' capture. Everything else is made up. No attempt at copyright infringement is implied. This is amateur pastiche. I am not making any money.

Summary: Pippin is licked by his Orc-captor. Various bodily fluids are secreted and ingested.

Notes: Thank you to Belinda and Tyellas for orcastic inspiration. This is my very first FPS-fic (I usually write RPS) and I thank the OrcSlash list for freeing my inner orc. *g* And thank you to the amazing Belinda for thoughtful and careful beta.

This lovely picture also played a role: [ Pippin and Orc ](pix/orcandbilly.jpg).

\-----

Orcs. Orcs everywhere.

The swaying motion of the Orc against Pippin's body. The stench of Orc-skin and the scabrous roughness of Orc-neck. The ripping pain in Pippin's wrists where rough bonds cut into his bones, joining his hands together around the Orc's shoulders in a mockery of an embrace. The retching burn in Pippin's throat, the scrunching of his spine, the agony in his guts.

All around Pippin, the great wave of beastly hulks surged through the night. The only sounds to be heard were those of the trampling of a hundred iron-shod clods, the huffing of a hundred lungs and the keening whistle of Pippin's own breath. Now and again, the crack of a whip rang out, followed by foul laughter and incomprehensible throaty shouts. The night air closed like a steel blade against Pippin's nape. The snot inside his nose froze to the walls of his nostrils.

The Orc that was carrying Pippin had peeling snake-like skin and a broad, stooped back. Despite its reptilian appearance, it was surprisingly warm. Hot, even. At first, Pippin stuck out his stiff head to the side and blinked the ice crystals from his lashes. But finally, Pippin gave in and let his cheeks fall against the furnace of the Orc's neck, against the stinking, leprous strip between the beast's helmet and its hard, clanking armour. Foul, yes, but glowing with infernal heat.

Pippin's eyes fell shut and his mind drifted to some other place and time where sunshine blinked on petunias and golden-fleeced puppies gambolled among the weeds at the bottom of Uncle Saradoc's garden.

When he woke up, existence had not changed. Trampling, huffing, the frozen wastes above and the endless horizon all around.

Pippin hadn't seen Merry since the capture. The last thing he remembered was the sight of Merry's bleeding and screaming face, hanging upside down from an Orc's shoulders like a sack of offal. Pippin didn't know whether Merry was alive or dead, and where, in this seething, bestial mass, his cousin or his cousin's cold body might be found.

Merry had screamed, but Pippin took care not to scream himself. He kept perfectly quiet. He'd managed to tear off his elf brooch and to drop it somewhere --months ago it seemed, years. Since then, all he'd managed to do was to hold on.

It was not easy. Never mind the contortions of his bones and muscles, forced into hours of unnatural cramping against the Orc's back. It was his mind that was the worry. At first, Pippin could still tell waking from sleeping, but then it all started to merge into one long mirage of feverish dreamland. Marigolds and kittens cavorted with Orc-snouts and demon-clawed goblins; evil wings obscured the sun; visions of Merry, Frodo and Sam danced a mad tarantella in the fevered backrooms of Pippin's brain. But then Merry's face drowned in blood, Frodo's head withered to a skull and Sam's smile twisted into a grimacing husk.

Pippin startled awake. His body was being wrenched in seven different directions by harsh paws. His hands were yanked above his head. Pippin bit his tongue to choke the scream bursting from his throat. He was dumped on the ground, his shoulder hitting frozen mud.

Pippin blinked. A rest stop, it seemed. What had appeared to him to be months of travel could only have been a few hours. The stars glared down at him. He tried to remember the constellations and what they could tell him of time and season but he couldn't think of a single name. Dead fog pushed into his thoughts. The cold white dots hung in the vastness, keeping themselves to themselves.

Something poked him. It was the Orc that had been carrying him. He recognised it by its stench. Strange that one foul smell should separate itself out from the general miasma.

The Orc made sounds that seemed singed and scorched out of recognition. Pippin stared blankly but after a while, the gibberish resolved into individual words.

"Oi, you. Get up."

Pippin tried to get to his feet, but he had been hanging off the Orc too long. He collapsed.

Two rough paws tugged him into standing position. The lip of a flask was forced between his teeth. Fire coursed down his gullet. Pippin choked and spat but more of the stuff followed.

The Orc burst into cackles.

"Too strong for you, eh? You little piss-weakling," it shouted and clapped Pippin on the back. Pippin didn't fall. The fire in his veins stiffened his limbs. The drink was vile but it held him upright.

There was shouting and screeching all around. Orcs stomped about in confusion. One of them nearly trod on Pippin in its idiotic haste and was shoved to the ground by the Orc who'd been Pippin's steed.

"Watch where you're going, yer piece of shit!" yelled the Orc. It was shoved down in turn and bellowed in rage.

A third Orc, this one larger and wielding a whip, loomed into view and shouted, "Leave the fucking Halfling alone. You spoil him or break him, and I'll chew your fucking balls off and stuff them down your gob."

Some sort of commander. Apparently, Pippin was to be preserved. For now.

The Orc who'd been carrying Pippin leaned over. His ugly mitts groped at him, patted his torso, ran up and down his leg, squeezed his arms. Pippin's teeth chattered.

"Nothin' broken, I don't think," growled the Orc. "Hard to tell with these little buggers."

Buggers. He'd said buggers, in the plural. Pippin craned his neck in hope and looked around. But it was no use. Walls of Orc-legs all around, heavy masses of calves and thighs, and at Pippin's eye-level, the gross bulges of Orc-genitals, swinging freely under their coats of armour.

The air reeked with farts and belches. A steaming turd landed with a squelch only inches away from Pippin's foot.

"Right, we're off," said the Orc and hoisted Pippin back into position.

They ran off at a trot. Pippin's arm sockets screamed in protest at being pulled back into their strained locks. The stars whirled. Pippin let his head fall forward. He tried to crawl up the Orc's back a little higher to ease the pain. He pressed his clammy forehead against the Orc's steaming nape.

Again, what seemed like hours passed. But when Pippin came to, the night was still dark. Or had a day passed and this was the night after? Pippin's head lolled. The air was dank with Orc-fumes. Pippin's bladder ached within his belly. It was the fire-water. It begged for release.

The Orcs ran on.

"Excuse me," said Pippin. It came out as a feeble squeak. He cleared his throat and tried again, "Excuse me."

No response.

"Excuse me!" shouted Pippin. "Hey, you! Orc!" He wiggled his wrists up and down. He banged his fists against the Orc's gristly chin.

"Oi, you stop that, yer little fuck," yelled the Orc.

Pippin stretched and moved his mouth to the pointy, hairy ears sticking out from underneath the helmet. "Could we stop for a moment? I need to go to the toilet."

"The what?" shouted the Orc.

"I need to pee!"

"Pee? Yer need to do a piss? Why do we need to stop for that?"

Pippin swallowed. The Orcs, just like mute mules, seemed to drop their loads underneath them wherever they happened to be standing or running. Streams of hot piss and lumpy excrement issued from beneath their armour and were trampled into the mud by countless feet.

Pippin groaned and closed his eyes.

After what seemed like another brace of hours, the pressure became unbearable.

"Hey, Orc!" yelled Pippin again.

"What is it now? Just shut the fuck up, yer stupid worm."

"I need to pee."

"Then pee, yer piss-fart."

"I can't. We... we Halflings need to stop for that."

"Stop? We can't fuckin' stop."

"Just for a moment," pleaded Pippin.

"What the fuck," grumbled the Orc.

But it did veer to the side and slow down.

"You better be quick or I'll catch it," it grunted.

Pippin was thrown to the ground and scrambled to his feet.

"My hands," he said. "Could you untie them? I need to unlace my breeches."

"No fuckin' way," said the Orc. It pushed back its visor and peered at Pippin through the yellow slits of its pupils. Pus dribbled from its left eye. Encrusted blood hung off its wide nostrils. The Orc looked Pippin up and down. It crouched down and, without warning, tugged down Pippin's breeches. The laces tore. Seams groaned. Pippin swayed on his feet. He gulped and tried to grab hold of himself with his tied hands.

The Orc put its head to one side. It stared at Pippin's splashing arc. It poked one of its fingers into the stream, sending spray into the night air, and it licked its finger. Pippin shut his eyes.

"Oi, that doesn't taste half bad," said the Orc. "Need to do a crap as well?"

"No," said Pippin. He felt faint.

"Don't yer Halflings have to crap?"

Pippin opened his eyes again. He considered the brute before him. This Orc -- 'his' Orc -- looked actually quite freshly-baked. He was small -- well, small compared with the other Orcs, small and stocky, with a pointy, weasel-like maw. Globs of undigested meat dangled off his fangs. His helmet was a size too large for him and sat almost clownishly atop his protruding ears. He scratched his neck with one long-nailed finger, inspected the grume it had dislodged from one of his festering wounds, and licked the glob off.

"So do yer Halfings fuckin' take a crap or not?"

"You really shouldn't swear so much," said Pippin.

"What's 'swear'?" said the Orc.

"You know, say words like..." Pippin hesitated. "Like 'fuck'."

"And why the fuck not?"

"It's rude."

"What's 'rude'?" said the Orc.

"Oh, never mind," Pippin said wearily.

Another voice intruded. "What's going on here? Get a move on, you piece of useless shit." Pippin's orc went flying face-first into the mud. A gigantic hulk of an Orc gave him another kick, pulled a whip from his belt and lashed Pippin's Orc across the neck with it. Black blood oozed out. "Fucking useless maggoty pieces of cunt. We should carve up the lot of youse and have you for supper. Now get up, you stink-fuck, and get a move on."

Pippin's Orc sat up, spitting grass and slime.

"Sorry," Pippin said.

He was hoicked up once more.

"I didn't mean to get you into trouble," Pippin said.

"What's 'trouble'?" said the Orc.

Pippin blinked and shook his head. Was he going insane? Why was he apologising to an Orc? It was the Shire, bred into his bones. "How d'you do, Aunt Esmeralda?" "Sorry to hear about your accident, Old Gaffer Gamgee." "And how are you on this fine morning, Cousin Brandybuck?" And now: "Do beg your pardon, Master Orc."

A strange thing happened after the peeing episode. Pippin's Orc became talkative.

Pippin had managed to drape himself into a more bearable position. He had shifted his arms to one side and pulled his head up and over the Orc's shoulder. One warty ear jolted against Pippin's left cheek with every stride but he could see better and he could clearly hear the Orc's charred voice.

"Yer piss tastes different from mine," the Orc volunteered.

"Oh," said Pippin. "Does it?"

"Yeah, it reminds me of somethin'."

"Really?" said Pippin. Then, curious despite himself, he asked, "Do you make a habit of drinking pee?"

"Nah," said the Orc. "I prefer..." He said a word that was incomprehensible to Pippin but no doubt referred to the fire-water that had been forced down Pippin's throat earlier.

"So," said Pippin cautiously, "am I the first Halfling you have ever met?"

"Fuck, yeah. Funny little fart you are, too."

"Is there not another Halfling in this group?"

"Another little bugger-cunt? Yeah, I think so. Lugdush was sayin' somethin' about it. Further up front. Maybe I should drink that one's piss too, eh? Huar huar huar." The Orc burst into cackles.

Pippin held his breath. "Is the other one... alive?"

"Fuck, I don't know about that. Hard to tell with you little buggers."

"Please, Merry, please be alive," whispered Pippin. "Please, oh please."

His face flopped against the Orc's neck again. "Please," he whispered, and then tears squeezed out. The mere hope of Merry had thawed Pippin's numb brain.

"Oi, what the fuck?" said his Orc. "Are yer pukin' down my neck?"

"No, it's only tears," sniffed Pippin.

"What's 'tears'?"

"You know, when you cry. When water comes out of your eyes."

"What, like piss?" said the Orc. "Eye-piss?"

"Yes," Pippin said. "Sort of like that." And then he laughed.

It was quite clear. His mind was becoming unhinged.

Perhaps it was the influence of that fiendish fire-drink. Perhaps there had been some poison in it, designed to confuse Pippin's thoughts and addle his blood.

"What else comes out of you?" said the Orc. "Shit, cock-piss, eye-piss -- anythin' else? Do yer shoot spunk?"

"Shoot what?"

"When you pull yer cock, does spunk shoot out?"

Pippin laughed again, and the laughter sounded quite wild now. A shrill, untethered laugh such as he'd never heard from his own mouth before.

"Yes," he said. "Yes, I suppose it does. I didn't know that Orcs have the... same experience."

"Fuck, yeah," said the Orc. "I let mine out all the time. It'll clog up yer brain, if you don't shoot it out enough."

"What brain?" Pippin couldn't help saying, with a manic giggle. He immediately bit his lip. His carrier, though, didn't take any notice. He was busy with something else.

"Come to think of it," said the Orc.

Pippin, peeking over the Orc's shoulder, was startled to notice the Orc fumbling with the bottom of his armour and, without pausing in his loping run, grabbing a fistful of Orc-flesh and jerking his paw up and down on it.

"I'm sorry," Pippin said, "would you mind?"

"Mind what?" growled the Orc. Did he actually sound slightly out-of-breath?

"Oh, never... Don't worry about it," said Pippin.

The Orc tugged at his member. Pippin tried to look away but his eyes kept swivelling downwards, as if pulled by magnetic forces. He had expected the Orc's penis to look different. Well, not that he had expected anything. Not that he had ever thought about what an Orc had between his legs. But if he had thought about it, he would have expected something more meaty, something thick and dark. This Orc's cock was surprisingly slim. It looked like a long, pale tuber, hairless, scabless, with a fungal crown at its tip and a neat thin slit winking like an echo of the Orc's eye.

It reminded Pippin of asparagus. Thinking about asparagus made Pippin's stomach rumble.

The Orc's spunk looked like nothing so much as creamy cheese sauce.

When the cheese sauce spurted forth, the Orc burst into a thundering roar, an ear-shattering, moose-like rutting bellow.

None of the other Orcs seemed in the least bit bothered. Two rough, black ones nearby jeered some gibberish, poked out their tongues and made crude gestures with their hands.

Pippin's Orc wiped his paw across his cock and licked off the spunk.

"Fuck, yeah," he said.

"Indeed," said Pippin. The heat from the Orc appeared to be seeping into his own bones because he felt his face blush. And not only his face. Pippin's neck blushed, his belly blushed, and something further down was blushing into life as well. He swallowed and tried to think of ice and floes.

"Oi, I wonder if yer spunk tastes different from mine," said the Orc. "Like yer piss."

"By all the stars in the heavens," muttered Pippin.

At dawn, there was another rest stop. Pippin craned his neck again for a glimpse of Merry but before he could get a good look from his vantage point on the Orc's shoulders, he was flung down on a hard, grassy knoll.

The Orc had deposited him on a patch of earth behind a large, lichenous boulder. Perhaps he was afraid of being kicked and whipped again by his superiors.

More fire-water was forced down Pippin's throat. A crust of stale bread landed in his lap. His Orc first devoured his own rations -- a grub-riddled side of meat, numerous swigs from the flask -- before lifting his buttocks, letting out a mighty fart, followed by a long tube of fecal matter. The Orc then squatted before Pippin, watching him with glinting eyes. When Pippin had swallowed the last crumb, the Orc suddenly leaned forwards and licked him. The Orc's long, rose-coloured tongue shot out, like that of a frog, and swiped moistly all across Pippin's face.

Pippin gasped.

"Sweat, too," said the Orc. "You sweat, just like me, yer little runt-cunt." The Orc put his head to the side again and regarded Pippin attentively.

The Orc licked his chaps.

Pippin took shaky breaths. His ribs trembled.

"Go on, have a crap," said the Orc. Without ceremony, he pulled Pippin to his feet, yanked his laceless breeches down and pushed him down on all fours. The cool air made Pippin's nuts crumple up. "Go on. I wanna taste it."

Marigolds. Petunias. Lilies-of-the-valley. And all the tumble-down glory of midsummer roses.

Pippin made his mind fly away. The Orc's rasping membrane slurped out the insides of Pippin's behind. The creature seemed to have an unnaturally long, unnaturally strong tongue. It probed far deeper than Pippin would have believed possible. He was lying face-down behind the boulder, shit-streaked grass up his nostrils and shit-streaked Orc-tongue up his arse.

Pippin forced his mind into the past. Merry's face, sparkling with droplets. Merry splashing into the Brandywine River, wreathed in sunshine. The hidden path at the back of Great Smials, sleepy with the buzzing of bees and with noonday torpor. Breathless with the dimpled hiccups of Merry's mouth.

"Not bad," said Pippin's Orc. "Turn around."

Pippin was rolled onto his back, his privates exposed to the sky. He stared straight into Orc-eyes. Merry's face faded. Tears rose to Pippin's throat but mortified dread kept them inside his head. The Orc's eyes were sulphurous. Cracks of black blood formed a veined pattern throughout his irises. He had no lashes.

"Go on, shoot yer spunk," said the Orc. Two calloused fingers closed around Pippin's helpless mouse.

"Teeny, aren't yer? Little runt," said the Orc. To Pippin's demented ears, it sounded almost affectionate.

The Orc yanked at Pippin with his huge, claw-like fingers. Scabrous, fistular fingers but also hot fingers. Burning hot from the inside out, scaldingly hot with the torrid fire-blood of the Orcs.

The Orc leered. The Orc licked his lips.

The Orc's face blurred before Pippin's vision.

"You don't get very fuckin' hard, do you?" said the Orc. "I'll have to see if I can catch some anyhow."

And the Orc's foul tongue folded itself around Pippin.

Pippin bit back his groan of panic.

"No," was all that came out of his mouth. "No, no."

The Orc's tongue curled around Pippin's dick like a naked, dripping worm. The tongue was covered in rough little nipples and hairs, like a cat's tongue or like a wriggling, bristling caterpillar. The tongue was fiery, burning, hot. The tongue doused Pippin's thirst with the flames of a thousand ovens.

Pippin tried to make his mind fly away but he couldn't. He was pinned to the present.

"Please end soon, end soon," he moaned into his throat. "Please. Merry. Oh, Merry."

Unbelievably, Pippin came.

After that, he stopped talking to the Orc. He stopped trying to hold on. He lolled off the Orc's back in a limp bundle. Pee oozed into his breeches. Spit drooled down his chin. Shame and oblivion washed over him in alternate waves. He vaguely wished the Orc would slap him, would push its hideous fist into his face, split his lip, puncture his nose, lick blood from his face. Punch him into nothingness.

Pippin hung off the Orc's back, his cheeks wet against the Orc's hot nape.

What he couldn't know was that the Orc found it oddly soothing to have the Halfling's eye-piss dribbling onto his skin. The Orc's skin was a mess of craters, of pustulating gleet and flesh-raw cysts. The liquid from the little runt's snout was soft and cool against the inflamed membranes.

Pippin had not been wrong when he had thought of the Orc as freshly-baked. The Orc was barely a yearling, wide-eyed, untried. One of his first memories was pillaging a village down Rohan-way, burning and breaking and sticking his cock, dripping with blood and pus, up the juiceless cunts of villagers. He stuck it up any hole he could find -- Women, cows, mules, the twitching arse of a half-dead Man. Afterwards, he killed his prey with a bite to their necks and sucked out their jugular blood. Sometimes, for good measure, he'd fuck 'em again when they were already dead. Right at the end of the village, in a low building filled with straw, he'd found a Woman cowering in a corner. The Woman had clutched something to her big round teats, something small and alive, and she had cried, "Not my baby!! Please spare my baby!!"

The Orc hadn't known what a baby was. He'd fucked the Woman and bitten her neck, and then he'd looked at the mewling pink creature on the ground next to her carcass. He'd picked it up. He'd poked it. He'd sniffed it. It was too small too fuck. He'd licked it. It had tasted of... well, not like anything that the Orc had ever tasted. It had stared out of its tiny round eyes and wiggled its tiny paws. It hadn't screamed. When he'd licked it again, it had made a gurgling, laughing sound in its throat.

Then one of the others had trampled by and smashed the little creature's head against the door jamb until its brains spilled out in a grey, viscous flume. They had gobbled up the grey mass together, and the killing had gone on.

Tasting the Halfling had reminded the Orc of that tiny mewling creature. The Orc tightened his hold on his small burden's arms. Not much of a burden. The Halfling weighed no more than a loaf of *Cram*. Maybe, once they got to wherever they were going and once the powers that be had finished with the Halfling, they'd let him keep it. Maybe the Halfling could be his baby and he could lick it all day long.

Less than twelve hours later, the Orc lay dead, with an arrow of the Mark through his throat. Pippin and Merry crawled away into the undergrowth of Fangorn Forest.

There, in the secret green heart of the wood, Pippin held Merry, and they whispered their adventures into each other's ears.

But Pippin never mentioned the Orc's tongue to anybody, ever.

\-----

The End.

21 January 2003

If you enjoyed this story, please comment. 

All original parts of this story: © Lobelia


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